March 19th, 2008

me

(no subject)

As a general rule, the Welsh hate the English. They have hung on to the Welsh language largely so they can say rude things about English tourists right in front of them. (As a general rule, everybody hates the English. Even vast chunks of the English hate the English.) The English regard the Welsh as a comedy nation, good for rugby union, cheese on toast, male voice choirs and sheepshagging jokes.

There is, understandably, friction.


--derryderrydown, here (QWP).
Paw-Fu

yuki_onna speaks with serpent's tongue

"Gentlemen, the time has come. We have no other choice."

"But sir!" says a hapless intern. "We could try conventional bombing!"

And the Serious Man shoots him a glare of pure hatred and disdain and strokes the sensuous skin of his beloved serpent as it rests its head on its master's Armani-clad knee and hisses quietly. If this scene is not in the movie, do not tell me, for I will not believe you.

It really shouldn't be a last resort, though, my good man! It should be your first, last, and only resort! There is literally no problem that cannot be solved by releasing an equally large boa. I use it in my everyday life, and it can work for everyone!

You cannot argue that the outcome would not have been infinitely preferable if, instead of $30 billion, the Federal Reserve had released an equally large boa into the Bear Stearns offices.


Context will not boa you.
flowers

Wait, this isn't London!

thistle_chaser is not having a fun vacation:

You don't have blood in your urine for weeks when it's all flowers and sparkly lights inside you. :/

It's odd that it was so hard to find in that it's also apparently giant and old. c.c So it's big, yet hides well! My kidney stone is obviously a ninja.


F-locked Context prefers pirates, YARR!, QWP
Nothing Wrong With Cackling In Moderatio

Oh, hey, pants

So for the past several weeks, I've existed in a state of mild vexation because I couldn't find a) my darker pair of jeans, and b) my cream-colored space squid from the outer void shirt. Given that I've done laundry -- twice! -- and cleaned my bedroom, this has seemed entirely unfair. Isn't the point of doing laundry and cleaning your living space finding all the clothes that you've been missing? And also, finding the cat? (Hint: the cat is probably under the laundry. I think Lilly's great-grandmother was a white rabbit in some magician's vaudeville act, because Lil seems quite sure that if she burrows deep enough, she'll find the land of cream and chicken.)

Yesterday, while digging around in my desk at work, I found a pair of clean jeans stuffed into a drawer. This was marginally surprising. I don't really remember why I felt the need to have a pair of clean jeans in my desk; it probably had something to do with a Union Square zombie battle, which leads me to wonder exactly when I made my commute home covered in fake blood (the natural result of having failed to don my carefully-placed pants).

Still, I was fairly pleased by this, and took them home with me.Last night, having woefully run out of productivity, and more, having failed my 'fake it 'til you make it' attempts at getting some writing done -- and with Vixy, Brooke and Kate all offline, and thus unable to provide sweet distraction -- I decided to be a good girl and get some work done around my bedroom. Despite the frequency with which I clean it, the fact remains that I have a lot of stuff, I keep bringing more stuff in, and there are some storage issues. Plus, when I'm actually in the 'no, really, I'm writing now, writing is happening, what do you mean the house is flooding with trans-dimensional hamsters, I don't care, that's why we have cats' zone, I tend to create mess by breathing. Things fall on the floor, I don't notice. Lilly knocks things over in her efforts to get my attention, I don't notice. Monsters emerge from my closet and rampage through downtown, I don't notice. It's a thing.

So I started cleaning, and then I started getting annoyed by the amount of cleaning to be done, and then I started really cleaning, and about the time I unearthed the mouth of my closet (for the first time in weeks), I found the pair of jeans that had gone missing in the first place. Huh.

Apparently, cleaning really does result in finding lost things. It just takes a little while.My shirt, however, has not yet decided to reappear, which makes me think I may need to tackle the room's deepest, darkest, most dangerous corner. So if I stop responding to messages, well, you'll know why.

The room will have finally devoured me whole.

-cadhla has some clothing issues.

(no subject)

mosesandcompany muses on the career choices of his youth:

When I was in kindergarten, nobody knew what a consultant was. I, for one, wanted to be a bunny when I grew up. Not a bunny rancher or anything like that – actually I suppose that’s probably a fictional job title as well – perhaps “bunny wranglers” exist out there but I don’t actually want to know – but yes, I wanted to be an actual bunny rabbit. With the big floppy ears, propensity for lettuce, the whole snazzy bunny package. I didn’t know how much money one earned as a bunny, and wasn’t particularly concerned – I’m sure that food and shelter would pretty much take care of themselves, and really all the other silly things we spend money on are unnecessary when one is a bunny rabbit. Don’t have to buy clothes, for example. Don’t have to worry what sort of image you present to the world. [...] Because they don’t care about what I think, because I’m the one guy in the bar who’s clearly uncool. But man, soon as a bunny hops into one of the bars on Clark or Division, all the ladies are like “awwwww” and the dudes are like “hey, it’s a bunny. I respect that.” I really knew what was up when I was in kindergarten.


Context still doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up, because it doesn't intend to grow up.
Cloud Droplets Are Twenty Microns

(no subject)

victoriana has a perilous day of teaching:

"All right, so...that's Mark Twain, now let's get started on The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County," I said.

And then the kid threw up on the floor.

I can only assume he doesn't care for the Regionalist flavor of American Realism.


Context knows that Education is that which reveals to the wise, and conceals from the stupid, the vast limits of their knowledge. Flocked, QWP.
Ahiru & Fakir text

that and a box of cookies

fairest1 on the possibility of royalty or aristocrats to get away with murder:

[He] fell victim to a nasty incident involving the wife of a high-ranking member of the mafia, forty-two bullets, an elevator shaft, a complete set of ginsu knives, an infestation of brown recluse spiders, a garrote, enough arsenic to kill a bull elephant, a bull elephant, a speeding dumpster truck, an experimental laser, a sledgehammer, punji stakes, punji snakes, a horde of flesh-eating squirrels, a vat of acid, a crowbar, three chainsaws, four icepicks, a length of string, and a small wooden spoon.

The coroner deemed it a clear case of suicide.